


Little Bit of You

by soulmuzik



Series: a true soulmate is a mirror [2]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Abbie x Everyone, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel and Ichabod Parallels, Character Death, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drabble Collection, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Irving and Castiel finally team up, Multi, Sibling Bonding, Tumblr Prompt, muse gone fishing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14719088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmuzik/pseuds/soulmuzik
Summary: “in a worldfull oftemporary thingsyou area perpetualfeeling.”― Sanober Khan(10 prompts, assorted pairings.)





	1. "I know it’s 3 in the morning, but I can’t find my cat"

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: GUYS I finished college and got the writing bug, but no inspiration, SO I decided I'm going to challenge myself to this 10 prompt thing with my fave crossover fandoms while I figure things out. I hope you like these!
> 
> fanfickmarvel chick Tumblr Prompt: “I know it’s 3 in the morning, but I can’t find my cat”
> 
> Abbie and Dean, Neighbors AU

When he first heard the knock, Dean was pretty sure he was still sleeping; it must have been residual noise from an in-between conscious state of being. He was dreaming, or at least half way dreaming. He had to be. It was _bedtime_.

Then the knocks got louder, and suddenly they were all out, flat palmed _bangs_ against the crappy hollow wooden door in his sketchy apartment complex. The clock read 3:47am in a blaring red that burned his retinas and he was not in the gotdamn _mood_.

“Fuck”, he grumbled beneath his breath, “are they serious?” he said to the empty air.

They must have been. Because they kept knocking.

Dean rolled off the bed and onto his feet, bare chest and legs cold from the sudden loss of warmth his bed covers allowed. He regretted leaving immediately, his mind reminding him of the 6am alarm that would be calling him to his back-breaking, boring as hell construction job. The thought gave him just the right amount of resentment mixed in with his exhaustion to cement the grimace on his face.

“This better be good and you better be dying whoever the hell you are!” his voice rasped with sleep, but he yelled anyways. And it was who-ever-the-fucks-fault.

He’d tell them as much.

He was going to.

Really.

Until he opened the door.

“I know it’s 3 in the morning, but I can’t find my cat.”

Dean tried to process all of her all at once, but he was overwhelmed by how _good_ she smelled. Her face looked soft and dewy, the brown hues of her skin complemented even by the dim light in the hallway. And the super hadn’t changed those in _months_. She wore slippers and baggy plaid pajama pants with a faded t-shirt. Her dark curly hair was pulled up and off her neck, the long strands of her hair falling over her forehead. She was beautiful. Beautiful and _distressed_ , her shiny brown eyes wide and her arms closing in around her, “I’m really sorry—we share a fire escape, and I’ve caught him down here before but your stairs are too narrow for me to climb down. I just wanted to know if I could look and—”

“Slow down”, he said and he needed it, squinting against the light bouncing off her in the hallway, “a cat? You’re bangin’ on my door at 3am for a cat?”

Her worried face turned defensive, a divot forming between her eyebrows, “yeah, I am.”

He put his hands up in defense, “you do know how crazy this is, right?”

“Yeah”, she said, impatient and shivering; she must have been cold, too. Good. “But I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t important.”

He arched a very tired eye brow at her, racking his hand down his face, and hated himself for what he was about to say, “if I let you look, will you leave?”

She nodded, worrying her bottom lip and he couldn’t stop looking so he stepped to the side to let her in. “the fire escape is this way.”

“Thank you”, she sighed in relief, and the sound passed through him. He elected to ignore it.

While he was ignoring it, they were both reaching for the door, his hand bumping into hers, “sorry, uh—”

“Abbie”, she smiled, soft, and it reminded him of sunrise.

Honestly, he needed to go back to sleep.

“Abbie”, he said, feeling the word in his tired mouth, “here you go.”

He opened the door, and it all happened to fast.

“Icky—”

“Ic— what?”

_“Wait…”_

“WOAH!”

The cat sprinted into the apartment, black and sleek and holding the _biggest_ dead rat in New York.

And then they were both screaming.

“What the _FUCK_!”

“Oh no, Icky---gross, oh my God”

And in the midst of the screaming and the crowding; what with Dean flipping on the lights and rushing towards the cat, and Abbie leaning in maybe too quickly to try and get Icky to drop the rat, he did.

He dropped it.

Dean’s cemented on grimace broke into shock and if he wasn’t before, he was fully awake, now, _“It’s still alive?!”_

The rat started running, the cat started running, and soon, Dean and Abbie were on top of his couch, feet falling between the cushions as they tried to escape the literal rat race.

“Oh my GOD—”

_“What is happening…”_

“Icky STOP!”

The rat jumped—high—and Abbie held fast to Dean’s arm, while Dean attempted to recoil from it, “Jesus Christ—cat, get the damn thing already!”

“Hey, he’s doing his best”, Abbie shouted.

 Both of them looked on like you would a car wreck and could not turn away, “not fast enough.”

That divot between her brows, “So why don’t you get off the couch and do something?”

Dean’s face contorted in confusion, “You ever been toe to toe with a New York rat? Your cat is about to die.”

Abbie jumped down from the couch, narrowly avoiding the scurry and broke for the balcony door.

And the rat made a run for it, too.

“ _Shit_!” Dean ran to grab his broom while Abbie tried to dodge the rat, her black cat on its tail.

As Dean predicted, the rat made a beeline for her, “Abbie!”

She looked up, and caught the broom stick in midair, getting into stance and swinging.

_Thwack._

In the quiet that followed, the only thing you could hear over their breathing was the cat’s paws against the glass door.

And she starts _laughing_.

Dean wants to be mad, he does—but between the absurdity of what he’s just witnessed, the mild awe at her batting skills, and the cat…

He starts laughing, too.

Abbie’s laugh is full bodied, and she holds herself together, this time, with a sense of relief and ease. “I know it’s 3 in the morning—”

“Four”, Dean corrects, looking at the clock on his stove across the way.

Abbie rolls her eyes, locking them onto him, “ _four_ —but this is probably the most fun I’ve had all week. I’m sorry it had to happen in your living room.”

Dean nods, the smirk he wears unshakable, “you know what? I’m not.”

She grins, and he’s reminded of sunrise again. This time, though, he doesn’t ignore it, “hey…wanna do this again sometime?”

“This?”, she scoops up her cat, and laughs, “no.” She catches his fallen face, “but we can get coffee in the morning. My treat.”

Dean nods, “I think I can swing that.”

They’re laughs bounce off the empty walls in his apartment, making it all feel less hollow. And he likes the sound of that.


	2. "There's only one bed"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and Sam. FINALLY. I have been wanting to write this pairing forever. 
> 
> AU: SPN s10, slight cannon divergence. SH. s1, complete cannon divergence.
> 
> Prompt 8/50: "There's Only One Bed"

When Abbie went to purgatory, Jenny made a deal with the devil to get her back.

And when she did indeed come back, Abbie had gotten a crash-course in crossroad demons, and angels, and _marks of Cain_ and she honestly longed for a time when the most complicated part of her life had to do with a headless horseman and a 200-year-old grudge.

Now her sister was gone.

And even that wasn’t simple.

Because wherever Jenny went, she did not go alone.

She learned this in the back alley behind a dive outside of Wisconsin, standing off with a very tall very lost looking man; his eyes rimmed red, void of consequences. She knew that look; she’d seen it a dozen time in her own reflection. That man had nothing left to lose.

It didn’t matter. Because she had everything to lose. “What do you know about Crowley?”

“Keep your voice down”, he demanded in a harsh whisper, never putting his gun down, “how do you know that name?”

Abbie wishes she still wore her badge for moments like this; it was the trump card. Conversation terminator. But the badge stopped meaning what she thought it did, so, she stopped wearing it: out of principle. “You put the gun down and we can have a conversation.”

He didn’t look like he would. Abbie was prepared to shoot this man—a thought that may not have crossed her mind before…everything. Nowadays, it seemed like the stakes were always too high to risk it. If this man wasn’t willing to give her information, what lengths would she go to get what she wanted?

She didn’t have to answer; he lowered the gun, pocketing it, and putting his hands up, “your turn.”

She considered the upper hand she had, before lowering the gun and tucking it away in her waist band. There was something so broken in his eyes. She didn’t think she had it in her to add to it, “start talking.”

And that’s how she met Sam Winchester; her partner in crime and brother in plight. Apparently, this _Crowley_ character was out pillaging with Sam’s brother because of an ancient curse that had turned him into a demon. And Jenny, now soulless, had proven that she can _hang with the boys_ and had been brought along for the ride. Abbie thinks it has more to do with the apparent war in hell and Crowley’s need to build his numbers. Abbie remembers that a powerful demon had once possessed her sister. “That’s bad news. If she was the vessel of a demon before, she could become one again”, Sam had told as they sat opposite one another in a diner somewhere in Ohio. He’d pulled at his collar and Abbie had taken that as a sign not to pry. But she had a feeling he knew about that personally.

~*~

They were parked outside a convenience store. Dusk approached, and they had sat in her car for nearly an hour. Sam had been shoddy on the details, but he said that he’d gotten intel that demons would be at this particular gas station on this particular evening, and they’d have information the two were looking for. She watched him, steady hands as he loaded several guns, and stashed away several knives. He put a long, silver piece between the two of them. She’d never seen anything like it before, “what is…”

“They look like people”, his voice sounded tired, resigned. His eyes were worse, when they found her, “they’re _not_. Don’t pull your punches. And don’t hesitate.”

Abbie nodded, looking at the declining sun, “I’m not new to this. You don’t need to give me a pep talk”

He sighed, nodding an apology she accepted, “it freaks people out—but you do it enough, and you forget.”

Abbie found herself wanting to understand—intimately—how he got where he was. As familiar as she was with ruin, as ruined as he was, there was something about their situation that tethered her interest to him. Maybe it was her loneliness talking: all she had was Jenny, now, and maybe after all this was over, she wouldn’t. It made her seek out connections where she saw them.

Abbie reached for the blade, and Sam watched her hands. She thought, maybe, like everything else he did, it was out of distrust. But when she found his eyes, there was something else there, too. The tether.

She saw movement above his head, watching four people—bodies—move into the store, “They’re here”.

~*~

When the fight was over, Abbie felt bruised in places she hadn’t been bruised before.

She’d also never been thrown into a freezer door before, so there were first times for everything.

“There’s a motel--”, Sam broke off in a wince, barely touching his right arm. It looked wrong, “off of the highway…a few miles east.”

Abbie’s brows furrowed, “I’ll drive. Is it broken?”

Sam shook his head, “dislocated, maybe.”

They were both still out of breath, covered in blood that mostly didn’t belong to them and after nights like these, she’d trained her mind to leave the horror of it all where she found it. Sam closed his eyes, and besides giving her the address, said nothing the whole ride. He looked at peace, for once, sitting in the passenger seat, beat nearly to hell and shoulder lopsided—but his face was quiet. No longer at war with whatever lengths he was always willing to go to get his brother back. Abbie felt that tether again, that familiarity that willed her to understand.

When they got to the motel, and up to the room, Abbie was glad for rest. She would sleep, and maybe, when morning came and they found Jenny and Dean, she could leave Sam Winchester and severe the tether.

“Shit”, she said, and watched as he dropped his head in defeat, “there’s only one bed.”

“I can go back”, Sam sighed, “get another room.”

“It’s fine”, Abbie shrugged, “it’s one night.”

~*~

Sam’s breath caught in his chest, skin slick with sweat as he held onto the bedframe with one hand, “just…do it.”

Abbie nodded, one hand on his shoulder, and the other at his wrist. “This is the point of no return. You sure?”

His face deadpanned, “if you don’t do, it, I’ll—FUCK”

She pulled his arm back into place, and his hand, once lank beside her hip, grabbed a hold of it as he tried to outrun the pain. Abbie elected to ignore it, “I figured surprising you would make it a little easier,” she slipped out of his grasp, grabbing two small bottles of dark liquor from the mini bar. She handed him one, and he nodded, gratefully, “sorry about…grabbing you—reflex.”

Abbie’s eyes swept up across the expanse of his chest and the faint way in which it tinted. He pulled more of the dark liquor from the little bottle. He was nervous, “it’s okay.”

They fell silent and the room about them grew awkward. Abbie pulled a pillow and sheet from the bed, tucking them around the couch chair beside the mini-bar, “worst injury gets the bed—and seeing as you’re still sweating, you probably win.”

Sam hesitated, “that’s really kind, but you don’t have to do that.”

Abbie didn’t want to ask the question it seemed like he was waiting on. She didn’t want to ask what her other options were. She didn’t want the answer. She was hoping to get rid of the tether, not make it worse.

She shrugs, her smile parading a good nature that robs the room of its previous charge, “guess I’m just too chivalrous.”

He smiles, and she tries to ignore the fact that it’s the first time he’s done that since she met him.

~*~

The couch chair is a nightmare.

Every time she turns, the bruises flare and the unforgiving linen of the couch bites back at her like it’s alive, and it wants nothing more than to hear her suffer.

She tosses. She turns. She winces. She repeats.

The clock up ahead reads somewhere near 3am when Sam sits up, and pulls the blankets beside him back. She feels a little guilt, thinking she’s woken him. But she cannot help the shitty furniture choices. When he scoots over and vacates a space, and then _pats the bed_ , she finally stops moving, “Abbie. Get out of the chair.”

Abbie purses her lips, “I’m fine.”

“I’m not”, Sam says, turning his head into the pillow, “that couch sounds terrible. The space is open if you want it.”

It only takes Abbie ten minutes before she caves.

She does not mean to audibly sigh when her body sinks into the mattress, but she does and she also doesn’t miss the way Sam stiffens beside her. With the way their week has been going, she would probably pay more attention to it had it not been for the immediate relief she as getting, taking over a little more brain space than everything else.

Sam sat up, gingerly, his hair still damp from his shower and his movement a little awkward with his sore arm, “comfy?”

Abbie smiles, soft, in the dark at the sound of his very awake voice, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

Suddenly, the dark and the proximity reminded her of freedom. She feels the tightness and propriety melt out of him into the mattress. “I haven’t been sleeping all night.”

Abbie’s whole body anticipates something. That tether, from before, feels like a current is going through it, “what’s on your mind?”

He sighs, his hands coming to rest against his thighs, beneath the comforter, like he’s bracing himself. “So much”, he laughs, shaking his head and making a decision, “my brother…your sister...all the shit I’ve done—and how selfish I wanna be.”

He looks at her and she knows exactly what he means. “Me, too”, she says, low in the dark like a secret.

His hand comes to rest beside her on the bed. She takes her own from her lap and puts her hand on his, the fingers locking in together like a puzzle.

It’s like the tether, teeming with electricity, finds some reprieve in the contact. Abbie doesn’t want it to stop—the contact and the _release_. “Sam…”, she says, and doesn’t finish. All she needed to say was his name and suddenly their lips were pressing into one another’s, the pressure a pleasant reminder of what it’s like to be alive and careless.

She expects his hands to find her hip again, for his lips to travel elsewhere. She anticipates everything to go hot and heavy and as fast as they possibly can. But it’s dark and their _free_ —so his hands, instead, come up to caress her face, “will this mean anything tomorrow?”

She kisses him the way she breathed, the first day out of purgatory—every time she brushes her lips with his she is reminded that they are _there_. That this is real, “do you want it to?”

His lips make contact with her jaw, “Can it?”

And he’s right. Can it, really? He was a mess. And she was a mess. And they may not survive tomorrow, let alone find the time to make something out of whatever this connection was. There were a million reasons for her to say no.

And only one she would give.

She lifts up onto her knees, bringing them to either side of his hips and lowering down, gently, into his lap. She presses her forehead to his, “that’s a choice we can make—" she takes care to pull her shirt up and over her head, wincing still at the way the bruises sat beneath her skin. She laughs, he smiles, and she’s decided: “later.”


	3. "Is that my shirt?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 5/50: "Is that my shirt?"  
> AU-Cannon Divergence. Egregious liberties taken with the plot of SH. 
> 
> Jenny and Kevin! Lots of sibling feels. 
> 
> Sad shit ahead. Sorrrryyyyyyyy

There are still times, like today, when Jenny approaches her trailer, wary of the light on.

 _There shouldn’t be a light on_ , her mind would reason. _Everyone is gone._

And before she met the prophet of God, that had been very true. Crane was gone. Irving, too. Joe. Hawley.

Abbie.

Gone.

But now, Kevin was here.

They’d happened upon each other on accident. But both of them, meeting on the worst days of their respective lives, and Jenny had called it cosmic.

Jenny didn’t even get to say goodbye to her sister: a fire fight with a pack of witch demons, resurrected by Moloch and headed up by _Katrina_ ; it was a blood bath. Half the police department, led by a vallant fool Irving had proven himself to be, were slaughtered, but Katrina only wanted one. Abbie fought hard, but she wasn’t _magic_. It all happened too fast: Crane took the blow meant for Abbie, and died in her arms. Jenny ran to her sister—she wasn’t magic either but she wasn’t going to let Abbie get taken, too. And then her body was flying through the air and she was watching her sister disappear through a gray door, accompanied by Moloch’s cruel voice.

_‘The witness is mine!’_

They all fell quickly, afterwards.  

Jenny waited for her turn. It never came.

Instead, some kid holding a gray stone tablet and running like the devil was after him stumbled upon the clearing where the battle had been. Dazed, she took his shoulders. He seemed to be in his own trance, fighting against her, his eyes wild and afraid.

“Who are you/”

“Is your name Jenny?”

Jenny dropped his shoulders, and her hands sloppily slid along her body for her gun. The kid stepped away, holding the stone up like a shield, “WAIT! I can help! I can fix it.”

Jenny had only been desperate once before in her life: the day she needed Abbie to admit that she’d seen the white monster, too. This day was worse. She fell to her knees, her mind replaying the way Abbie’s hands slipped from hers, “do it.”

She looked back up at him, at the red rimmed, glassy eyes and the bags—the way his clothes hung from his frame, and the old way his jaw set. Like he’d lived through a war, too. “If you get me to safety, I can, I swear.”

So, she did. And he told her everything—about his dead parents and his God tablet and his prophetic visions of the woman lying in a pool of her friend’s blood and how he _had_ to find her. How he lived in captivity with demons, too, and had escaped their grasp—narrowly—and how afraid he was, to ever get caught again.

In exchange for his tireless work to free her sister of whatever prison she was thrown in, Jenny protected the prophet of the Lord and pretended like she wasn’t a hypocrite. ( _Protecting_  someone. As if she could.)

Sometimes, she would forget.

She’d be living in her memories. Present in her laden fears. She’d look up at her remote trailer and see the light on and hate the hope that would sprout up in her chest, because it hurt _so much_ after she came to her senses.

Kevin wasn’t allowed to leave the trailer. The sigils hid him, so long as he stayed inside. So she bought dinner and books and a _printer_ and they spent their days calling academics from burner phones and drinking coffee to stay awake when they were on to something and not talking about it when one of them would wake up screaming from whatever hells their brains were conjuring.

“Kid—I hope you cleaned that bathroom”, Jenny says, struggling through the door with the bags in her hands, “I swear to god, I’ll kick your ass if it still smells in there.”

Kevin rolls his eyes from where he sat on one of the twin beds towards the back of the trailer, eyes never leaving his notebook, “you’re bluffing. And I used the last of the pine-sol.”

Jenny hefted the bags onto the counter space with as much audible effort as she could muster—which was a lot. He never looked up. “I forgot how much I hated kids until you started bumming around here.”

This was an old fight. Some days were harder than others, and she wasn’t being fair....

“You also forget that you’re not my mother, so you can stop fuckin’ nagging me.”

But neither was he.

She always stops first. She’s supposed to be the adult, she’s supposed to be the responsible one. Level headed. Not goading and cruel…

Abbie wouldn’t be proud of it.

“I got chicken, steak, and pork tacos. I hope you like cilantro—“, she stops cold.

Kevin wears it differently. He cuffs the sleeves, and it stretches over his chest in the tight fit that he seems to love wearing his shirts in.

But the problem is that that’s not his shirt.

“Is that my shirt?”

Kevin looks up now, confused, “uh…I don’t know. I got it out of the closet?” His question is edged—a sort of _back the fuck off._

But Jenny’s not kidding, “take it off. Now.”

His brows scrunch together, but he doesn’t move, “okay…I’m still seventeen, and that’s technically not legal—”

“I said NOW”, she says. She doesn’t yell. She rarely does when she’s angry. She does something her father passed down to she and Abbie at a very young age; she hits every consonant. She speaks clearly, so that there is no air in her words. No room for misunderstanding.

They have not gone here—this is not their regular bickering. Kevin stands, now, confused and hands raised, “what is your problem?”

Jenny feels the prickle behind her eyes. She cannot stop reading the faded ‘cadet’ on the t-shirt pocket and cannot unsee the mustard stain on the shirt from the game Abbie took her too after she got her first paycheck on the force. She cant stop seeing it and _god_ , she wants to, “You need to take off that shirt.”

Kevin stopped being afraid of her a long time ago, but he won’t stop making space between them, “You _never_ have a problem with me wearing the clothes in the closet—what the hell is your damage?”

“It’s not **yours** ”, she yells now. That desperation she constantly feels she’s keeping at bay creeps up into her voice. Kevin has witnessed it, and he’s the only one left to know where it’s coming from.

When that recognition crosses his face, she realizes that her own is wet with tears she didn’t know had started falling, “Okay Jenny. I’ll take off the shirt.”

He disappears behind the bathroom door.

She sinks into the floor.

~*~

She’s laying in the bed opposite Kevin, and she doesn't remember getting into it. He’s got napkins and balled up tin foil at the foot of his bed, several mountain dew cans along the edge, and he’s wearing a faded Prince shirt circa 1978.  It’s _definitely_ hers.

Not Abbie’s.

“You’re way heavier than you look”, he quips, not looking up from his tablet. When she doesn’t answer, his head lifts and he turns a pair of worried eyes on her, “I’m…kidding.”

“I’m sorry”, Jenny says, and it feels weird coming out of her mouth. Not just for the hoarseness of her voice, but for the way that the words are way more mature than she thinks she was capable of, “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Kevin shrugged a cuffed sleeved shoulder, “it’s okay. I get it.”

His smile is transparent. A sort of understanding one hero of war must have with another. The sort of understanding heroes have when they know they aren’t heroes at all—they’ve lost too much.

Jenny’s eyes sting again. So she tosses one of her pillows at him and knocks his pen out of his hand, “you got anything new for me to read?”

He tosses the pillow back, “you sure I’m not interrupting your nap, old lady?”

“Shut up, you _infant_ ”, she says, and she’s glad that Kevin is here.


	4. "I think we should stop seeing each other"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 22/70: "I think we should stop seeing each other"
> 
> Sexy-ish times ahead. Plotless, mostly. Some FBI/Criminal stuff, slightly off cannon.

_“I think we should stop seeing each other”_

 

She knows she’s said out loud, but Dean’s tongue swallows the ends of her words and she’s a little dizzy from the contact but she had a _point_ , she swears, as her hands work to free him of that godforsaken leather jacket. Her eyes are closed but her hands don’t need them--they’re very familiar with the hard planes and smooth curves of his body. The heat between them intensifies with the first contact of skin--the pads of her fingers on his shoulders and under his shirt where she may bruise him if he keeps going the way he is.

 

“Mhm”, he hums against her lips, his hands sliding down from where they were beneath her shirt, about her jean covered hips to beneath her ass. He lifts her up against him, and her legs wrap around his body like they belonged there. He walks them backwards through her dining room and she wonders, briefly if she even closed the front door as she feels him reach out to clear her mostly empty table to sprawl her out on.

 

“ _Dean_ ”, her voice shakes, his mouth and hands working in tandem to undo her; his mouth is deliciously warm against where her pulse skitters beneath his lips and his hands push her troublesome shirt  up and over her body. She helps him, her movements unconscious as she tries fruitlessly to get back to her _point.._.whatever it was. “You...listenin’ to me”, she nearly hisses out as he finds the sensitive skin on her neck. He began to string his kisses down the column of her neck, humming another affirmative as he used one hand to undo her jeans and the other to pull the straps of her bra down. She pulled at his shirt, and he broke contact for a moment to pull it off. It gave her just enough clarity to remember…

 

“We should stop seeing each other”, she tries to reason in their haze. This was _why_ , neither one of them could think straight because everytime their skin made contact her entire body burned. It was really starting to get in the way of her job, which, evidently, had been to catch this elusive con-artist who may have been implicated in several bizarre murders.

 

Strange bedfellows, fugitives make.

 

Dean nods, putting both his hands down, palms open, on either side of her. His eyes bore into hers, bare and raw and she is _doomed_ , “you want me to stop?”

 

The tension stings, the way it strains her resolve. The effort it takes to keep her hands to herself is _trying_ . “I want you to…”, she should say turn himself in, or stop the criminal behavior, or something sensible an FBI agent would say to a man that has evaded the bureau for nearly a decade. All she can think to say, though, is what she wants him to do to _her_. All it takes is one touch, and her self control will crumble and she will fall back into him as easily as his hands move against her, or her legs against him. She closes her legs, at the thought, and he backs away from her, but his eyes are locked on her like his mouth had been.

 

He presses his back to the wall opposite her. She knows his efforts are being tried, too, “what do you want, Abbie?” For a moment, she wishes she could say what she’s supposed to. But the way her body still aches from the cold that his warm proximity gives makes her pause. Abbie Mills has always been a woman of her will. But she can’t seem to find it anymore, not since she started sleeping with Dean Winchester. “Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”

 

Her body tightens at the way his voice dips low and his hands curl in on themselves. And she remembers, watching those hands and the way his stare has not wavered why she continues to, in spite of herself, want _him_.

 

She turns so that their bodies are mirroring one another. Her eyes stay on his as she unzips her jeans, peeling them off of her skin and never breaking eye contact. She walks to where he’s pushed his body up to meet her, and their suddenly so close that they could be touching. “If you want me to stop, I will”, he says, earnest, even though that haze she’d tried breaking, is back and covering her body in goosebumps. “But I’m not gonna lie and say I want this to stop...us”, he says, like he savors it, “to stop. So I ask again”, he reaches out, his knuckles against her cheek, before they begin their decent down the soft curves of her body, over the cotton fabric that barely separates his very deft hands from where she wants him most, “what do you want?”

 

Her hands reach out to him, undoing his jeans and her smile is as shameless as his, "Come here, and I'll show you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, Im not totally good at writing this kind of intimacy. Sound off in the comments what yall think!


	5. "Let's do this"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #13: "Lets do this"
> 
> AU Wedding fic. Some dancing. Some cuteness. Some blatant ignorance of the show cannons. 
> 
> Song: This Feeling- Alabama Shakes

Dean doesn't remember the last time he’d smiled this much. Maybe he hasn’t--at least, not in a while. Now, it’s like he can’t even help it. He’s smiling and he feels a little silly, but at this point he’s lived long enough for the freedom to feel a little silly and smile, so it’s fine.  _ Good,  _ even. After all this death and mayhem their lives have finally slowed down enough for Dean Winchester to think of a little thing like smiling. 

"Woah, hang on", he abandons his beer to the vanity Charlie’s standing in, going to tuck a stray curl back into place. He catches his reflection still smiling in the mirror, so he schools his face. But not fast enough, because Charlie is turning up a mischievous corner of her mouth and, instead of batting his busy hands away, getting ready to laugh at him, “so it  _ does  _ emote.”

“Shut up”, he says, pointing a finger with no real accusation behind it, grabbing his beer back up, “”you better be lucky this is a big day.” 

Their standing in the changing room of some fancy hall he's sure their all spending too much money on, but Charlie is right. Today is a big day. Big enough for them all to wear their Sunday best and for him to tie some pretty flowers to the lapel of his jacket so he can walk Charlie Bradbury down the isle and look proper while he does it.

“Correction: the  _ best  _ day”, Charlie says, her eyes no longer on him, and her mind no longer in the room, but maybe in the one a couple floors down and to the right. She’d taken to doing that; traveling elsewhere--wherever her beloved was. “Today, I get married to the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”

“I mean, I’ve  _ definitely  _ met cooler”, he dodges her swing, not with much ease in his monkey suit, but his smile never goes away, “but you’re good for each other”, he says with a little more sincerity. And he means it, too. When Charlie met Jenny Mills, the stars seemed to have aligned for them. Dean’s never seen two people fall in so easily with one another. Especially two people like them. When Charlie said 'up', Jenny said 'down'. But when it counted, Jenny was Charlie’s right hand, and vice versa. Jenny may have been serious and bullheaded, compared to Charlie’s breezy independence, but they worked.

Really well, it seems. 

“Okay”, Charlie turned to Dean, hand reaching out for the veil sitting beside him. He picked it up, smiling still as he handed to her, “let’s do this.”

|`|`|

_ I spent all this time tryna play now _

_ I found my way here _

_ See, I've been having me a real hard time _

_ But it feels so nice to know I'm gonna be alright _

“Well that was  _ magical _ ”, Sam slurred a little, his hand grabbing a hold of the back of Dean’s seat. After many tears and lots of sappy speeches, Jenny Mills and Charlie Bradbury were hitched. It was a great moment; the sun setting on them as they kissed and made it official. Even without it, they were practically married anyway, but it moved something in them to see the kid to happy. After the everyone gave more sappy speeches, (where he swears _he did not cry_ ), the open bar and dance floor were put to very good use. The band was good, the booze was better, and everyone was having a good time.

Especially Sam. When did he even have time to get this drunk?

Dean looked over his shoulder at his brother, swaying like a tree in storm. He stood to steady him, but a blissed-out Sam put his hands up in protest, “no no no no no no no  _ no _ , I’m  _so_  good. I’m gonna go dance.”

Dean couldn’t tell if he were amused or concerned. With their track record, maybe it was a little bit of both. And he could of stopped Sam but he hasn’t seen his little brother smile like that in such a long time--light, careless; like the world wasn’t ending. Because it wasn't and they had a night--even if it was only one--where Sam could get really drunk and cut in on Jenny and Charlie’s dance to spin them both into his arms. Dean smiled again, taking his drink up from the table and tipping it toward the three of them in salute.

“Anybody punch your dance card yet, Winchester?”

Dean looked over at Abbie Mills. Her hair was a little looser than earlier, wisps of it falling from the intricately braided updo she’d worn with that pretty wine colored dress all of Jenny's party had on. The twinkling string lights seemed to glow around her head like a halo while she leaned over him a little and he realized he was behind the curve if _everyone_ was already drunker than him. Abbie didnt hold her alcohol the way Sam did--she held it _better_. She did not sway until the music started playing, and the only reason he could tell she was drunk was because she was talking to him. 

They didnt talk much.

Fight, though? _Tons_ . Abbie liked to throw words around like ‘reckless’, ‘selfish’, and ‘annoying’ when he was in her general vicinity. In turn, he may have said things like, ‘arrogant’, ‘overbearing’, and ‘smart-ass’ in retaliation. Neither of them had been very kind to one another when they’d started working together. Over time, the jabs stopped feeling like knives to the gut and more like love taps, though. He was still annoying. She was still a smart-ass. But they at least tolerated each other. 

Today, especially.

His brows furrowed, but his smile hadn't left, “you sure you want to?”

She sighed, but it seemed like she wasn't going to let him sour her good mood, “wouldn't be asking if I didn't,  _ Dean _ .”

He smirked then, the way his name rolled off of her tongue sounding a little fonder than she’d ever admit to, sober. “You keep saying my name like that”, he stood, his hand out for her to take, “and you can get more than a dance.” She swatted at his hand, and he nodded, conceding to maybe having gone too far before she reached for his shoulder and shuffled backwards towards the dance floor. 

_ So please don't take my feelings _

_ I have found a name _

He smirked down at her, amused, as she looked him over like a puzzle she was attempting to solve, “where am I supposed to put my hands... _shut up_ ”, she didn’t even have to look up at him to see the raise of his eyebrows. 

“How about”, he took her right hand in his left, and both their eyes went to the combining of their hands--the way his big ones covered her small ones. His hand slipped around hers, thumb stroking slow down the skin. He watched her as he found her other hand and placed it on his opposite shoulder, “ _ there _ .” 

Abbie sighed, falling in step with him as they swayed to the guitarist’s delicate strumming, and the low sultry voice of the singer, “always have to win, don’t you?”

Dean grinned, “that what you think of me, sweetheart?” Their bodies moved without any prompting. It was like they’d been dancing like this forever, her body moving and his following, his hand guiding her spins so that she always came back--a soft hand pressed to the center of his chest upon every return.

She hummed, her head pillowing against his chest.  _ Man _ , he couldnt wait to tell her about this tomorrow, “you really wanna know what I think of you?”

Dean’s chest filled with something else now. Something a little akin to dread. As much as they’d fought, and still did, they’d made a lot of progress. As different as they were, Dean could trust Abbie Mills with his life. He _had_ , and had yet to be disappointed. It meant something to him, to be able to trust someone like that who wasnt Sam or Cas. But for all their time together, Dean didnt know Abbie well enough to always know what was going on inside her head. Maybe trust meant something to him, but not to her. The prospect of her thinking as low of him as she once did made his chest tighten in the worst way, and he didnt really want to dwell on why. “Hmm, we’re having a good time, Abbie. Don’t--”

“I  _ think _ ”, she began, and his shoulders tightened a little, “you look good when you smile.” She grinned then, all teeth, her head still pressed up against his heart so she doesn't see the way the worry fades from his face and his shoulders relax against her. “You don’t smile enough.”

He bites his lip. Because he’s about to start smiling again, and he feels a little silly. But the world isn't ending and he’s living and maybe he deserves to feel a little silly and smile.

And Abbie likes it when he smiles.

He spins her once more as the song ends, and cannot help that as much as he'd like to flirt, make light of the way his stomach is floating and blame it on the booze, all he can do instead is let his mind be distracted by the smiling, and the allure of Abbie's unguarded eyes, and all the possibilities he's got ahead of him. 

If smiling was all it took, he would have done it sooner.

_ If I wanted to, I'd be alright _

_ Yeah, if I wanted to, I'd be alright _

 

 


	6. "things you said before you kissed me..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt #44 - "things you said before you kissed me" [pt. 1? Future kissing implied?]
> 
> Abbie gets out of purgatory. Its her birthday and she 's fine. 
> 
> She really is.

They throw Abbie a party when she ‘comes back’.

Crane hates it, and isn’t too much of a gentleman to tell everyone how much. He’s a little shyer in Abbie’s presence about it; she was clear as soon as she’d made it home and still, since he wont stop turning those sincere doe-eyes on her: she’s fine and it wasn’t a big deal. She’s home, and the party is nice and thoughtful.

Crane’s pursed lips and crossed arms are of the opposite opinion, “not at all misguided? Do you truly believe a ‘party’ is in your best interest right now…” he trails off, feeling Abbie’s subtle, stern shift. His shoulders sag in regret as she turns her body from him where they stand in his foyer, going over the details of their latest case on the road to Pandora. “Abbie, I--”

“Crane, for the hundredth time”, she stands with her back to him, pretending to simply need more coffee, and not to put as much distance between she and his concern as she can, “I’m fine. And you need to trust that and  _ drop it _ .” 

It had been two weeks since Abbie had been freed from Purgatory. Jenny and Crane hadn’t asked any questions, but it wasn’t for a lack of curiosity; Abbie needed some time. But she was fine; relatively unharmed, as she’d explained with a quick flash of her smile. Jenny had been so glad to have her back that she’d conceded, even if not completely. They’d learned to bide their time with one another, and Jenny trusted their pattern--that Abbie would come around.  Crane didn’t have any of those reservations, and dug his heels in. His worry was palpable; coated his throat when they spoke and weighted his every move when he was around her. It’d only gotten worse after Jenny and Luke had decided on the welcome home party. Obviously, Crane thought it was out of the questions. Clearly, no one was listening.

The party was hosted at Mugsy’s, a local cop bar where the bartender knew Abbie’s name and always made it feel like home. It was meant to be lowkey, but Abbie had more friends than she realized, as she walked in and noted the bodies surrounding one another, stacked against the bar and pressed in together. Abbie, in her years as a police officer and more recently in the supernatural business, had learned to read a room and adapt, but her facilities were a little rusty. She’d prepared herself for the bigness of their reactions, and for everyone’s sake girded herself in case the noise became too much.

All things considered, she thinks she may have handled it well.

“ _Happy birthday to_ _you_...” the crowd all turned on her, bright eyed and gentle smiles. She took a deep breath - the wash of love and appreciation was ever-present, and she fought away from it feeling overwhelming. 

This was nice. Kind. A party in her honor, and Abbie Mills could appreciate a good party.

She kept smiling, counting the faces in the crowd. Cynthia and Lacey. Luke. Devon. Mrs. Walters and her annoying ass dog, Truffle. Irving. Jenny. Her new friend, Sam, and his brother. Crane. The faces of the people who cared for her. Who she’s cared for. The memories of their moments floating in her head, and then suddenly turning. Fast, like wind in a storm. Because it had only been a week since she had made the striking, hollow realization that she may never see them again and her mind felt a little fucked up because, for a split second - just one - she wondered if any of this was even real.

God, she hoped her smile didn’t look like she was just baring her teeth.

She blew out the candles, and did something she always did before; thrust a victorious fist in the air and commanded the room to party, all with a little charm. They responded in kind. Almost exactly how she hoped they would.

She needed to get out of here.

Luke’s hands -  because she knew them well - were suddenly at her mid-back. Always the gentlemen, even if he wasn’t shy about his intentions. “Hey Abs”, he said, loud enough for her to hear over  _ 1999,  _ “you got a minute?”

The polite thing would have been to say  _ yes _ , The normal thing, even. But Abbie’s head was still swimming and she needed some air, but she didn’t want an audience, and she didn’t want questions and she didn’t want to see Crane’s face when he told everyone that he had been right. Maybe the crowd of loving faces was too soon. Maybe she should have gotten everyone in small doses. Maybe she should have seen Cynthia’s doctor-friend. Maybe she should have stayed in tonight. Maybe, she shouldn’t have spent so much time in an empty world that drove her a little crazy. Maybe she should have admitted that she was a little crazy, now.

“Maybe--”, she says out loud, and shuts her eyes but tries to cover the fact that now, ever her thoughts won’t stay in check, “--maybe a little later? I forgot something in my car…” It was lame. She knew that he knew it was lame, but she hoped that Luke would take the hint - go find Devon and Irving and forget about her for a minute just so she could pinch herself to make sure they were all really here. 

“Abbie...you good?” Luke said with the concern she wish he hadn’t. Because now she felt like the whole room could see the storm in her head, and she really wasn’t ready for all of those eyes on her again.

“I’m fine…” Abbie tries to smile, but she knows its not working. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t feel right on her face but she’s trying to get out of this room and Luke, in all of his well-meaning concern, is making that hard. She looks up, for a moment, into his eyes. Their soft concern, and the hold of his jaw, where he’s beautiful even when he’s stressed out. She remembers, for some long moments in there, because there were no days in Purgatory, she’d look for this face in her memories. She needed...wanted to feel safe, and this is one of the things that did it. 

But there hasn’t been enough time to separate truth from fiction. And now, when she looks into those brown eyes in all their soft concern, a rock drops to the bottom of her stomach. Is my mind playing tricks on me again?

It all happens at once - the sharp intake of breath and the step she takes out of Luke’s orbit. He reaches out to her, but someone else catches her instead.

“Hey. You said you were getting my brother’s laptop out of your car”, she hears behind her, and this is new because this isnt someone she wrapped herself in - this isnt a memory that could be playing tricks on her. 

Abbie turns to find Sam’s brother - Dean - standing with his hand on her shoulder. It’s firm, but she could slide out of this grasp, too, if she really wanted. She doesn’t. For the first time all night, she sees the door. “Yes”, she says, and this time, the smile she gives Luke is genuine because she’s still living in the relief of seeing that door, “yes, I can grab it now. Be right back, Luke.”

His brows furrowed - his concern deepens -  and Abbie’s smile becomes re-assuring. She puts a hand on his, and the solid weight of it creates in her an imbalance. Both real and wanted. She lets go with that smile still in place and heads for the door.

 

~*~

 

Neither of them stop walking until they get to her car.

Abbie presses both hands to the roof of her car and takes deep breaths of the night air - it's actually kind of gross. It smells a little like city, and garbage, and gasoline, but she takes all of it into her lungs, because it’s better than clay and dirt and memories. She doesn’t look at Dean for a long time, but when she does, she’s glad that she didn’t have him to think about, too.

He might be the one person in there she knows is real. “Sam’s laptop isnt in my car.”

“I know”, he says with assuredness.

Abbie takes a minute to study him. There is an oldness to him that does not match the softness of his features - there is something in his eyes that’s seen too much. His shoulders form a hardline, like they’re cemented that way but the rest of him seems coiled, like a snake. Like he’s always waiting for a fight, even if there isn’t one. 

It feels familiar to Abbie. She rolls her shoulders. “You’ve been there?”

He doesn’t miss a beat, his eyes firmly on hers and they feel familiar, “a version of the same.”

Abbie doesn’t know where this resolve comes from, but it’s nice to know that she’s not taking to someone who  _ wants  _ to understand. Someone she has to explain the silence to. Someone she has to explain the unbreaking days to. It’s nice to know that she’s talking to someone who already knows what that’s like, “was it--”

Dean nods, “I forgot how to separate things, at first…”

They both lock eyes, because Abbie may not know Dean well, but he’s not the vulnerable type. And to be fair, neither is she. After all, she’s been  _ fine _ . It is both amazing and jaunting; the honesty he gives, and how honest she is, in return, “I’m scared I’m still there, sometimes.” Dean nodded, a knowing smile of agreeance on his face. Abbie continues, turning her head up to to the night sky, not missing the sun, “I know I’m not...but…” she breathes a little bit of the fear out, and her eyes prickle, “but...how would I know?”

Dean exhales, his hands leaving his pockets to brace against the car, too. He doesn’t give her an answer right away. She doesn't know why she expects him to. Her eyes stay up in the stars, but his go from the ground to her. When she does look at him, she notices that he doesn’t look at her the way Luke does, or Crane, or Jenny, or Irving. He looks at her, and waits for her. There is no expectation for her to be okay, there’s no surprise when she’s not. She’s not fine - and she doesn’t have to be.

“I think I might have to see that shrink”, they grin, because they’re not the types and she doesnt know much about Dean Winchester, but she can sense that.

“Or you could just hang out with me”, he grins. He’s flirting and she smiles because this is the most normal conversation she’s had in weeks. Her teeth aren’t baring - she feels this smile in her guts. 

“As much as I’d like to ditch my party and hang out with you”, she grins, sardonically, and he shakes his head at her, “I don’t think Crane would appreciate all that money going to waste. Old men are real frugal.”

On their way back to the bar, they walk side by side this time. Abbie doesn’t mind the sudden kinship. It feels real. “I never answered your question”, he says to the ground, and she looks over at him, measuring their steps in her periphery. He continues, “you know it’s real when it’s new: make new memories.” Abbie looks at Dean - a man who’s seen too much, with cement in his shoulders and features that don’t match his age. It’s familiar, but it’s not a memory.

It reminds her that  _ she’s _ real. 

Abbie looks at Dean and decides, maybe she will be making some new memories. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends.
> 
> When in doubt, I write complicated crossover fic.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The views expressed by the characters regarding their mental health are not shared by the author. If you're experiencing any mental health issues, or you really need to talk to someone, I believe that folks should seek help. You aren't crazy - you're human. Please utilize any and all resources you have to get the help you need. https://namichicago.org/en/helpline/
> 
> I hope you guys liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your feelings in the comments! Thanks for reading.


End file.
